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Tuesday, 24 February 2015

Rock N' Roll Needs Dickheads Again.

There's something missing in the music industry, and its absence is having an effect so detrimental and burdensome that it is seeping down through our society like bird shite rolling down the window of a Suzuki. We act like we don't want it, we try to justify our stance on it like college intellectuals who, at the heart of it, are merely well-read and well-spoken idiots. We sit there and we say "the world would be better without...", while at the same time grabbing and scraping our fingernails at anything that, not matter how benign, might prove worthy enough an example of why our society is broken beyond repair. We're looking for bad guys left, right, and centre, but we're having a hard time finding them. We can yammer on about government officials and heavy-handed foreign dictators, but those aren't the type of bad guys we're looking for. We want pro-wrestling fiends that bathe themselves in our hatred. Proud peacocks that strut around with feathers extended, ready and willing to shit on anyone and anything that isn't of any importance to their agenda. It's not about their endgame intentions, it's about the way they shake their arses while doing so.

We have a lot of horrible, disgusting people in this world, I shouldn't have to get into that, but we haven't seen a rock star in far too long. What we need is a lightning rod for our hatred, and it must be sporting a feather boa and brandishing a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Where's Axl Rose? Where's Courtney Love? Where are the real villains in the music scene? Sure we've got Kanye West, but even he has a level of sincerity and devotion that I'm too uncomfortable with. We need a shameless, hedonistic strain of Skeletor to come along soon so that we might turn the guns from each other and onto someone truly deserving of our ire. Someone so utterly repulsive that they welcome our hatred like free daiquiris and use our spit to shine their snakeskin boots. A real bastard who walks on stage with arms wide open to 50,000 people ready to hurl bottles of piss at them. Where are the rotten scumbags pasted on teenagers' bedroom walls, the ones we try to warn them not to follow?

No, instead we've got these sedated cardigans sitting on stools with acoustic guitars, thanking their fans for simply mustering up enough money to come to their concerts. There's a horde of chart-topping babysitters lulling everyone into slumbers ripe with idealist dreams. Admittedly decent human beings who realise the weight of their words and who polish their lyrics off in order to influence society in a positive way. I won't deny that these people are closer to saints than those whose images hang from old granny's locket chains, but there's too many of them. There's too much yang, and it's about time we had a bit more coke-snorting, seal-clubbing yin.

We've been attacking Maroon 5 for fuck sake. Maroon fucking 5. That's like slapping the hand of a toddler for making a finger painting of a cock. We need a clear line between good guy and bad guy, and that line can only be etched with the help of a truly hideous and egotistical rock star who tramples on the heads of small children and washes down meals of human flesh with liquefied banknotes.

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But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...But the children they'll...